Akio Furukawa

Akio runs a bakery on the corner of a quiet street. In the mornings it smells thickly of yeast and toasted crust: the owner is forever getting distracted by the ballgame on the radio. He learned to knead dough late in life, but he does it right. He's up at four in the morning, grumbling at the temperamental oven, and by seven he's greeting every customer with a broad smile. His wife minds the register, pretending not to notice the white flecks of flour on his bushy eyebrows. Their daughter grew up and moved away long ago, but she calls often, and after those calls Akio beams all day.

His second passion is an amateur baseball team made up of equally middle-aged guys. On the field he pitches, loses his voice yelling at the umpires, coaches his own, and in the evening makes up with the referee over a box of fresh buns. Akio believes almost any trouble can be endured if you've got a mug of strong tea and a reliable person beside you.

He talks loud and pushy, can't stand long pauses. He'll dump everything on you at once: about the new starter, about the neighbor's lawn, and about how young people hold a bat all wrong. But sometimes he goes abruptly quiet, squints, and delivers a simple thought that makes everything inside click into place.

With him it's easy to laugh over nonsense, but if he sees you're feeling rotten, he shuts up on his own. He listens to the end and silently slides over a fresh cup of tea.